


Once Upon the Bane of Midsummer

by LA_Knight



Series: Once Upon a Time: A Silverlance Fanfiction Series [3]
Category: Hellboy - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Flash Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 08:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LA_Knight/pseuds/LA_Knight
Summary: A series of drabbles about Prince Nuada Silverlance, born on Midsummer's Day, and the joys and sorrows as he makes his way through his many centuries. Ties into my chap-fic, Once Upon a Time. Written (at last) for hellobubby.





	Once Upon the Bane of Midsummer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hellobubby](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hellobubby).



> Everyone should thank Hellobubby for this. I promised them this drabble collection literal years ago (like…three, four years) and they were so good about keeping on me and not letting me forget, and I finally got it done. So here it is! Happy early new year, Hellobubby! Happy early new year, you guys. I'm sorry this has taken so long. I hope you enjoy it, though.
> 
> These are a series of drabbles/dribbles/tribbles/quabbles/flash-fics about things that happened to Nuada on his birthday, good and bad, cute and sad, romantic and not. He's over four-thousand years old, so that's a lot of birthdays. Here, I've picked about 20 to share with you guys. We'll also learn a teensy bit about his relationships with the women Ethine, Naya, Sunna, and Shina'kin.
> 
> Note: War and Bonds were written by WhenNightmaresWalked and used with her permission.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: touches on Balor's abuse, loss of loved ones, war, torture, grief, and murder, but not in a graphic way.

_ Perfect _

Ten tiny fingers.  
Ten little toes.  
Impossibly soft golden lashes.  
A shock of star-blond hair.  
An adorable little nose and a small yawning mouth.  
Little hands that reached up and tried to grasp the adult-sized fingers in his field of visions.

Balor looked down at his newborn son,  
cradled in his wife's arms,  
and felt his heart swell in his chest.

_ Spoonful _

The queen screams  
The prince freezes, golden eyes wide  
Uncertainty flashes across his face

Balor looks over, raises one eyebrow  
"Stop that, Nuada."

The prince considers this for a moment.  
Exchanges a silent look with his twin.  
Nuala doesn't want him to stop.  
Her gummy smile tells him all he needs to know.

Nuada flicks another spoonful of mashed peas at the queen.  
Her cry of dismay is drowned out by Nuala's ringing laughter.

_ Steps _

Ferocity in every line of the moon-pale face  
Determination blazes in firegold eyes  
Fists clenched, teeth bared  
Prince Nuada lifts his chin  
He will not be cowed, will not falter

He lifts one foot  
Every move deliberate and slow  
Sets it down again  
Takes one step  
And then another  
A third, and a fourth, and a fifth

He walks to the queen  
And only stops scowling when she scoops him up  
Hugging her young son to her heart

"Very good, my love! Wonderful! Balor, did you see?"

The king smiles and ruffles his son's hair  
At less than a century old,  
His heir is already making great strides

_ Shore _

He has only been twice before  
At the moment of his birth, and once as a very young child  
He is young yet, but growing  
And the queen misses her home

So when the homesickness becomes too great  
She takes her young son and daughter to see the ocean at midsummer  
Smiles when they run up and down the sand  
Laughs when they splash, soaking her gown  
Watches from the shore as they learn to love the sea

_ Orange _

"You!"

Nuada's head snaps up  
He recognizes the danger instantly  
Time to run

Dropping his wooden practice sword, he takes off  
Racing down the stone halls  
A shrieking girl behind him, feathers smeared with orange paint

"Get back here, you wretch!"  
Oh, no. No. He will not stop for her.

"You had it coming!" He calls over his shoulder.  
He has always hated Na'koma.  
She has always hated him.

"You turned my feathers orange, you absolute rat!"  
A stroke of genius, really.  
She really should've expected him to make a killing strike.  
And today of all days, he is unlikely to face too terrible a punishment

_ Squeak _

It was, in retrospect, perhaps a bit unwise.  
But he was committed now.  
There could be no going back.  
So Prince Nuada clung for dear life to his father's best horse  
As it bucked and kicked, nearly frantic to dislodge him.

 _Get off me, you little pipsqueak!_  Donas shouted in his mind.

"No!"  
He could make Donas respect him.  
If he stayed in the saddle for 5 minutes,  
Donas would never bite him again.  
And, if you could ride the horse out into the paddock,  
He would look great in front of his mother.

"Nuada!"  
The familiar voice of his mother distracted him.  
Oblivious to the sudden fear in silvered emerald eyes,  
He waved.

"Look at me, mother!"

In that instant,  
Donas bucked him off.

The young prince hurtled off the horses back  
And landed  
With a jarring splat and an audible snap in a mud puddle.

"Nuada! My love, what in Faerie..."  
His mother rushed to him, heedless of the mud,  
While grey-faced Elven princeling clutched his arm.

The queen said softly,  
"Broken, like as not.  
Come on, my little prince.  
To the healers with you.  
Of course you know this means straight to bed after supper."

"Oh, must I, Mother? Truly?"

Guiding him up the path, the queen nodded.  
"Indeed, you certainly must.  
It's to be the healers, a bath, supper, and then bed for you, my buck…"

Donas watched mother and child walk away while the stable hands approached warily.  
The little imp had stayed on his back for a solid seven minutes.  
Perhaps the stallion  _would_  make an effort to stop nipping when the boy came to close.

Or perhaps not.  
The boys squeaked in such an amusing manner whenever Donas bit him.

_ Cypress _

There he is.  
His father.  
He has never seen his father look so tired.  
So old.

Nuada hesitates  
Steps back from the phantom standing with its head hung low  
Beneath the mournful boughs of the cypress tree  
But a rough, gentle hand lands on his shoulder  
He looks up at Wink,  
the craggy features and broken tusk and golden eyes.  
The troll nods.

Wink is right.  
This is his father.  
It will all be all right, surely.  
Surely…

But when the young prince approaches his father,  
When he reaches out a small hand  
To touch Balor's bent shoulders,  
His father does not look back at him.

There is only an old, broken man,  
Eyes empty as yellow glass,  
Head bent and spine bowed,  
Face lined beyond its years.  
A phantom, a ghost,  
An echo of his father haunting the cypress trees.

_ Silence _

How many prayers has he offered?  
How many questions has he asked?  
How many answers has he received?  
Too many  
Far too many  
And none at all

Surely someone will answer him now  
It is the solstice, the day of his birth  
He has always been granted a boon on this day  
Surely the gods will hear him today  
Surely his father will speak to him today

But they don't  
And he doesn't

_ Mourn _

It has been decades  
So much time has passed since the queen died  
Yet somehow, her passing is not what shadows him now  
Somehow it is not the queen that he mourns  
It is his father

Somehow, he has lost them both

_ General _

How could they do it?  
How could they make him their leader?

He is no warrior, no soldier, no captain.  
He has never set foot on a true battlefield.  
Never tasted fear and blood on his tongue  
While his hands shook as they gripped his sword

The small war he fought when he was a boy doesn't count  
It was quick, brutal, bloody  
And he lost it

Yet somehow his father sees fit to make him a commander

He is not even a man yet  
Yet somehow he is supposed to lead these soldiers

When they look at him,  
He knows they do not see a general.  
They see only a scared young boy with a sword.

_ Scar _

The blood still runs freely down the Elven prince's pale face,  
dripping from his temples and trickling into his mouth,  
but he ignores the pain  
and looks into his father's eyes.

His sister,  
who bore the wounds with him,  
stands beside their father's throne.  
Though she feels the pain as well,  
she smiles at Nuada.

Now he is considered a man grown.  
Now he is considered a warrior.

Now he can take up the Silverlance as his weapon and become his father's true heir.

_ Constellations _

_I teach you the stars because they hold our history  
Hold our myths and legends and hopes  
I also teach them to you to impress the maidens  
Keep that in mind, my son_

He'd thought his father only jesting about that  
But as Polunochnaya slips her arms around one of his  
As she lays her cool, soft cheek against his shoulder  
As he maps out the paths of the stars for her  
Sharing the stories of their constellations  
He realizes the king is very wise in some things

He looks down at Naya  
Who gazes up at him with stars dancing in her silver eyes  
She is so very, very beautiful  
And she tastes of frost and starlight when he kisses her

_ Shadows _

There is more than merely kisses now  
He smiles a little more each day when Naya finds him  
When he tugs her into secluded alcoves  
When she dares to splash him with water from the royal fountains  
When he soaks in her warmth and her scent when they ride double on his black stallion  
He kisses her hands, her lips, her neck  
Holds her tight to his heart  
And in the shadows, in the night,  
He gives himself to her as he has never given himself before  
She holds him captive  
And he relishes the chains she commands  
 _My shadow lover_ , he whispers in her ear,  
And they both smile

_ Violets _

They complement her eyes.  
No wonder she loves them so.

He sees the other lads bring them  
And wonders what hope he could possibly have.  
She is so beautiful,  
All pearl and silver and diamond.  
How can he hope to impress her?

But when he comes to her that day,  
Invites her to share a ride with him on Lomán's back,  
Invites her to share his time in the meadow—  
His father's promised gift, every year on his birthday,  
A day (mostly) alone, to be in the forest,  
To reconnect to the wild green—  
And Nuada offers Lady Ethine the blossoms like bits of blue velvet,  
She smiles for him.

His heart leaps.  
His breath stutters.

When she kisses him that afternoon in the meadow,  
Her hair smells of violets and sunshine.

_ Fields _

They were green as emeralds—once  
They smelled sweet with fruit—long ago  
They rippled with ripe grain like gold—but no longer

It has been nearly a century since he has had the time  
The luxury  
Of being alone to celebrate the day of his birth  
To reconnect to his kingdom,  
To the land that anchors his magic like a heartbeat

The meadows are gone,  
Turned to charnel house mud by boots and sweat and blood  
So many of the familiar forests have burned to ashes

He looks to where the fields once spread like a verdant carpet  
Crops thrusting through the earth  
Flowers spreading like hope across the land

But the fey green fields cannot grow out of so much blood  
There is nothing left of them—now

_ Birthright _

He watched his father -  
his captain, his king, his hero -  
break the Golden Crown asunder  
and set one piece in the wide leather belt that girded his royal robes.

The second piece,  
Balor handed to Nuala,  
and that was fitting.  
His sister was wise, though her heart was too soft.

Then Nuada watched his father -  
his last hope, his betrayer, his shame -  
hand the third piece,  
the piece that should have been Nuada's own,  
to the chieftain of the Niall clan,  
the leader of the humans.

At this last oathbreaking,  
this last treachery,  
the Elf prince turned on his heel and took his first step into exile.

_ Memory _

Perhaps it is the betrayal of his own blood,  
The hypocrisy of the crown.  
Perhaps it is the reek of innocent blood  
Following him into the shadows of the world.  
He doesn't know why  
But for a thousand nights after his first steps into exile  
He is plagued in the night by memories.

Blood and dust and his mother's screams  
His sister weeping and his own howls of pain  
Blades slicing hot against his skin  
Fists cracking his bones  
And a pair of hands, somewhat smaller than the rest,  
Pinching and grabbing and slapping and squeezing  
Probing for weakness, for what will make him hurt

Iron bars and salt in his wounds  
The sickening  _crack_  of his leg-bones snapping  
Thirst burning in his throat like hot coals  
Hunger gnawing at his guts like rabid wolves  
And the humans  
The festering, putrescent humans  
Laughing, slapping, kicking him  
Offering impossible bargains of treachery or slavery  
He will give them nothing  
But they take it anyway

Corpses strewn across bloody battlefields  
Rictus grins in death, gored blades, empty eyes  
Friends and loved ones and lovers  
Brothers- and sisters-in-arms  
All silent, all broken, all dead  
And he is alone, screaming to the war goddess's ravens

Screaming until he is yanked into waking  
By the gentle, loving embrace of his vassal and brother  
And Prince Nuada weeps  
For himself, and for the dead

_ Father _

He cannot bear this any longer  
Even the so-called "solitary fae" are not meant to be so alone  
So he goes back

He will kneel before the king  
Petition him to reconsider the treaty  
It has been two-hundred years  
It has been broken a thousand times over  
Surely the king will see reason now  
Surely Balor will understand  
That the humans cannot be left to their own devices this way  
They must be monitored, managed by the Fair Folk  
Balor must see that now

He will welcome his only surviving son  
His heir, his beloved boy  
Surely his father will welcome him home  
There will be tears, and embraces  
On both sides  
Nuada will apologize for grieving him  
For worrying him so  
All will be well

When he returns to the palace  
They allow him entrance  
But the king will not see him  
His sister is abroad  
Her ladies have gone with her  
There are a few servants who love him  
There are his hounds and his horses  
But there is no father to welcome him home with loving arms  
There is only the cold, remote shadow of the king

So Prince Nuada returns, heartsick, to his exile

_ Rainstorm _

He has not seen green like this is so long  
It makes him hurt inside

The rain drips like strings of jewels from every vibrant green leaf  
The jungle drinking in the rain  
The southern tropical kingdom of Iara is not Bethmoora  
But it is so lush, so ripe, so green  
So very alive

Its soil does not welcome his magic  
Does not let him drown himself in sweet surrender in its life force  
But he can feel its power pulsing beneath the soil,  
In the trunks of every tree,  
In the breath of every beast.

He is far from home,  
Parted from his own lands by leagues and centuries  
But he sits with her in the trees  
With Shina'kin, her jade cat's eyes gleaming,  
And drinks in the rain  
Drinks in the power of the storm  
Drinks in the wealth of life all around them

And in the midst of the storm,  
She drinks him in,  
Sipping desire from his mouth like wine  
And he lets himself forget for a moment,  
An hour,  
A night,  
That there is anything but this woman  
And the rainstorm she has called

_ Son _

He has no children of his own  
He has no wife to bear them  
But here, in the jungles of Iara,  
In a home bound into the trees by Shina'kin's magic and skill,  
After half a century learning the ways of this place,  
He has found a family.

Shina'kin has been wed before,  
And she has lost her love before  
But she has found another, and so has he  
And her son, so small and so trusting,  
So reckless and so gentle,  
Looks up at Nuada with an expression the prince has never seen before  
The same one he once turned on his own father

No, he has no children of his own  
But if Shina'kin will allow him,  
He would have her for a wife  
And love her son as she does  
It will be her gift to him

_ Ashes _

He knows now the day of his birthing is cursed  
It must be  
The truth of it sinks into his soul as he stumbles  
Falls to his knees as his legs go numb  
As his hands shove deep  
Not into thin, dark jungle soil  
But into silty, wet ashes

There is no tree-bound home in the canopy anymore  
There is no reckless, trusting, gentle child like a son  
There is no storm-dancing, rain-drinking lover

Nothing is left of them, of his life, his family  
Except the ashes of human fires  
And the ashes of his own heart

_ Debt _

He has never known anyone like her  
He has known rhinemaidens before  
But they do not view the world as she does

He does not love her as he has loved before  
She is his friend, nothing else  
But it is enough

She had saved him once  
On a cold, dark, stormy night  
There is a bond between them

Here, there is friendship  
A warm refuge from the world  
Sunna's kindness and her daughter's laughter  
Little Lorelei always welcoming him to their tavern  
Here is respite  
Here is safety, of a sort  
And friends that are almost nearly family  
And that is no small debt to repay


End file.
